


Control

by silver_sun



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Cutting, Episode: s01e04 Cyberwoman, Gen, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-25
Updated: 2006-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 13:32:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/419456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver_sun/pseuds/silver_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I don’t think any of them would understand why I do this. Why I need this. I don’t think they could ever understand. It’s not about seeking attention or looking for pity and it’s not a cry for help; it’s just how I cope.</p><p>This is the first fic I wrote in the Torchwood fandom, back in 2006.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

> Written 1st person perspective, person in question being Ianto.

Originally posted 25/11/2006   
Title: Control  
Rating: Probably about an R – it’s very angsty  
Warning: Self harm.  
Notes: Written 1st person perspective, person in question being Ianto.  
Spoilers: Episode 4 mainly.  
   


So here I am again sat at the table in the back room of the so called tourist office, a place that's as much a fake facade as the face I show to the world.  
   
Newspaper is spread on the table, I don’t want to make a mess, after all I’ll be the one who'll have to clean it up. I always am.  
   
One of Owen's scalpels lays in front of me. I know he hasn’t missed it, he’s far too untidy to ever notice and for once I am glad, it's easier and safer with the proper tools.  
   
Always prepared. I should have been a boy scout. I have to laugh, the sheer surrealness of my thoughts surprise me sometimes, although lately it has tended towards gallows humour.  But boyscouts don't nearly get all their friends killed though do they? At least they used to be my friends, now I don’t know, I’d like to believe that they still give a damn about me, but in all honesty they didn’t seem to care before, so why the hell should they now?  
   
It doesn't matter that did it out of love and that I only ever had the best of intentions, because the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and most days that’s exactly where I feel I am. 

Picking up the blade I draw it lightly across my skin, there is a bite of pain and a thin red line trails in its wake and I allow myself a small sigh of relief. I can breathe again, the pressure, everything that has been building up inside me is let out in a rush.  
   
 This helps. It has always helped, for as long as I can remember this has been a part of me and helped when nothing else could. Not even Lisa when she was alive and whole and I loved her so very much, even she couldn’t give me what this does. This will always be here for me, this relief. It puts me get back in control of my life.  
   
Lately though I have started wonder to what it would be like just to cut a little deeper, to push the blade with just that bit more force, to let not just the pain and the anger bleed away, but my life as well.  
   
That is as far as it’s got though, the thought of it. I can’t do it. I will not do it. Because however much it hurts to be alive right now, and some days I think that I shall go mad from it, I don’t want to die.  
   
The blood trickles slowly from the cut to pool on the newspaper making a shapeless red blotch across yesterday’s sports results.  
   
I don’t think any of them would understand why I do this. Why I need this. I don’t think they could ever understand. It’s not about seeking attention or looking for pity and it’s not a cry for help; it’s just how I cope. Some people will turn to drugs or drink, and I don’t see how what I’m doing is any more harmful than that, and it’s certainly safer for those around me.  
   
Maybe that’s not entirely true, Jack would probably understand, I see the same hollowness in him that I feel inside everyday. Once I used to care, but not any more, he’s lost that right.  
   
A couple of minutes more and the blood has stopped and I clean away the mess with an antiseptic wipe, putting a plaster over it before rolling down my shirt sleeve. After all there is no sense in inviting infection or ruining a perfectly good shirt.  
   
Suit jacket back on and tie straightened I'm ready to face the world again, ready to deal with whatever today might bring.  
   
I’m putting the bloodied paper into the bin when I hear the sound of rest of the team arriving for another day in the Torchwood mad house, their voices loud and joyful, sharing jokes I’m never party to.  
   
Putting on a smile I go out to greet them.  This is my life now, this is the Ianto they expect to see, and I won’t disappoint them.  
   



End file.
